


against better judgment

by weatheredlaw



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Anal Play, Class Differences, Come Eating, Explicit Sexual Content, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Not Beta Read, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-22 21:09:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19998292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: “And wilt thou leave me thus?” Crowley whispers. “Say nay, say nay, for shame.”“Nay,” Aziraphale says. “I will not.”or: aziraphale, a bookbinder and a careful man, catches the eye of a wealthy aristocrat.





	against better judgment

**Author's Note:**

> loosely inspired by pride and prejudice. _loosely_. all the lines of poetry are from sonnets written by sir thomas wyatt. enjoy!
> 
> this fic now has art! done by the lovely emthewalkingparadox on tumblr, which you can find [here](https://emthewalkingparadox.tumblr.com/post/186965184650/mmmm-regency-smooches) and [here](https://emthewalkingparadox.tumblr.com/post/186697147675).

He had arrived with little warning, bursting upon Aziraphale’s sleepy village like a firestorm. Anthony J. Crowley had come from London, and had immediately set the rumor mill ablaze. Aziraphale didn’t concern himself with the rumor mill before Crowley arrived, and he certainly didn’t want anything to do with it _after._ He wanted to run his shop, in _peace_ , well away from his siblings and whatever gossip was rolling around town. Aziraphale didn’t _need_ anything like that.

He _needed_ to be left alone.

It was something perhaps he should have put in a _note_ , addressed to Lord Crowley. That he didn’t want to participate in whatever charade he was carrying on with, and he had no desire to be visited or called upon by him, at any point whatsoever. He should have sent it in triplicate, had it notarized, and then perhaps turned into some kind of traveling song so he could just _send_ it to him whenever he liked.

Unfortunately, by the time Aziraphale has the idea, Crowley has already started coming by, draping himself around the shop over various pieces of furniture, playing at being interested in books, and then leaving without buying a single thing.

It’s starting to get _very_ annoying.

“Aziraphale! _Angel._ ” The nickname had popped up some time ago. Aziraphale had several angel statues in the shop — they were gifts from his mother. “Got something to ask you.”

“Crowley, I’m busy. I don’t have time for games, nor do I have time to entertain you.”

Crowley raises a brow. “You _don’t_ entertain me, angel. I entertain myself. And what I would find _most_ entertaining—” He snaps his fingers and a servant, who’d been sulking in the corner, suddenly appears by his side. “—is if you’d be a dear and fix this book for my uncle. His birthday’s coming up very soon, I wanted him to have this.”

Aziraphale is currently working on a separate and, what he assumes, less _interesting_ project — rebinding bibles for Reverend Taylor’s Sunday school class. He drops number seven of fifteen and immediately goes to Crowley, carefully prying the book from his _unruly_ grip, and bringing it back with him into his workshop.

Crowley follows.

“This is _beautiful_ ,” Aziraphale says. “A _stunning_ copy.”

“Not a copy,” Crowley says. “Not a copy at _all._ ”

“Oh! Oh, an original. Sir Thomas Wyatt, in my shop. Good lord…” Aziraphale carefully opens the book.

Crowley leans in close. “ _Alas, madam, for stealing of a kiss, have I so much your mind there offended?_ ”

Aziraphale doesn’t look up. “ _Have I then done so grievously amiss, that by no means may it be amended?_ ”

Crowley laughs, very close to his ear. “I thought you’d like that.”

Aziraphale can only nod. He sets the book down and takes a step away from Crowley. “I’ll take on the project. When should it be done?”

“How long will it take?”

“Well, if I’m being honest, I’ll need to order a few things from the city—”

“I’ll pay for it.”

Aziraphale sighs. “I have those sort of funds, it’s part of running the shop—”

Crowley waves a hand. “Send it to me. Tool from the city, what else?”

“I’ll need _time_ , m’lord, time to clean it and time for it to set, if it’s going to last.” Aziraphale puts a hand over the book. Such a _gorgeous_ thing, right here, in _his_ shop. “And I’d...well, I’d like to read it.”

Crowley smiles. “Few things. First, money’s no option. Whatever it costs, just send the bill to me. Second, my uncle’s more likely to forget his own birthday than he is to remember he detests me and would rather never see my face again, so I could send this to him next _Christmas_ , with a note that says Happy _bloody_ Easter and as long as it wasn’t from me, he’d be fine. And the third thing—”

He steps close to Aziraphale again, hands in his pockets, looking down at him with a grin that Aziraphale imagines _lions_ flash at their prey, just before they _consume._

“Don’t call me _lord._ Are we clear, angel?”

“...Crystal.”

Crowley claps his hands together. “Excellent. I’ll leave you to it, and however long it takes doesn’t matter.”

“If your uncle detests you as much as you say, what’s the _point_ of this?”

Crowley shrugs. “Dunno. The man adores Thomas Wyatt. And if I’m going to slither back into his good graces, I may as well start somewhere.” Crowley walks past the little desk that hides Aziraphale away from the world, ringing the bell on the corner. “So! Final question. Are you _busy_ next Saturday night?”

“Well you just gave me a rather daunting project, so I’m afraid I’ll be—”

“ _Wrong_ answer, angel. The right answer is _Yes, Crowley, I’m quite free next Saturday. Why, what did you need?_ ” Aziraphale doesn’t say anything. Crowley produces an envelope from his jacket pocket. “I’m having a party. Been here over a month now, figured I’d...introduce myself.”

“ _Everyone_ knows you.”

“Yes, but do they know the _real_ me?” Crowley grins and slides the invitation over the desk. “Be there, angel. In your Sunday best. It’d be rude, by the way, to decline. I am, afterall, one of your _clients_ now.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to argue, but Crowley is already waltzing out of the shop.

“Tah, angel. See you soon.”

* * *

The thing about rich people is they have no sense of propriety. No sense of real _taste_. Oh, sure, the wealthy could feign things like talent and they had a variety of hobbies, but it’s a sort of... _jack of all trades, master of none_ , mentality, as far as Aziraphale is concerned.

Crowley does not seem to escape this stereotype, except in one distinctive way —

He knows how to throw one _hell_ of a party.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Aziraphale mutters. There are _fish_ in the fountains, people in masks doing strange little performances, all to the delight of _other_ wealthy people who don’t have enough knowledge of wear those dances come from to appreciate them. Aziraphale does, he knows precisely which French king enjoyed a good court jester in a mask, but the knowledge wouldn’t do any good to anyone here. He spots his sister Michale making play at being nobility in the corner — the look on her face when she sees him tells him he shouldn’t approach.

Not like he would. She’s never been anything but wretched to him.

He snags a glass of champagne, drinks all of it, and hands the glass back. Socializing is dismal work.

“Ah, Aziraphale!”

 _Ugh_ , he thinks. _Gabriel_.

“Gabriel! Brother—” They embrace. “I didn’t expect to see you here this evening.”

“I could say the same thing for you.” The look on _his_ face is as bad as Michael’s, suggesting that Aziraphale _shouldn’t_ be there at all. Aziraphale smiles. He’s well aware of his place within the hierarchy of his family — shopkeeper and rent payer, youngest son and general disappointment. He has so much he wants to say, and he rarely drinks so the champagne as certainly loosened his tongue —

And then a familiar hand slides over his shoulder and says, “Is this your brother, Aziraphale? Why haven’t we been introduced?”

_Crowley._

“Lord Crowley.” Gabriel bows his head. “It’s a magnificent party you’ve thrown.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that. Have you seen the fire eaters yet? They’re about to put on a show in the side garden. Aziraphale, I wanted to talk to you about the commission, will you excuse us?” He puts a hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back and guides him away from Gabriel. In a few seconds, they’re lost amongst the crowd. “Terrible man.”

“He’s my brother. I won’t speak ill of him.”

“Then have another drink.”

Aziraphale sighs as they settle along a far wall, surveying the party. “I’d better not. I’ve only just arrived and already I’m—”

“Flushed. It’s the heat. We could step outside for some air—”

“No, I’m alright.”

Crowley shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He makes no move to leave, however, instead remaining beside Aziraphale and looking at his guests. He smiles at someone every so often. “You know, I really don’t know _anyone_ here. Except you, of course.”

“Because you _forced_ yourself into my life.”

“Oh, don’t act like that. You like it.”

“I do not.”

“You _do._ ” Crowley grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing server. “Come on, angel. When in Rome—” He holds the glass aloft, a _delightful_ temptation.

Aziraphale takes it. Then takes a sip. “You know,” he says, trying this part out. Never really done it before. “You know I _heard_ something about you, just yesterday.”

“Did you now?”

“Is it true,” Aziraphale asks, “that you’ve no plans to return to London at the end of the summer?”

Crowley shrugs. “Never said I was going to. Why?” he asks, looking at Aziraphale. “Eager to get rid of me? Or are you just _thrilled_ to know I won’t be leaving yet?”

“You’re _mannerless_ ,” Aziraphale spits. “And crass. No sense of propriety, no taste in music or literature.” He takes a healthy swig of his champagne. All of this is true, and Crowley certainly knows it. If Aziraphale weren’t as tipsy, if his lips weren’t as loose as they are now, Crowley would likely say it himself. But, as it stands — “I’ve no more desire to spend time in your company than I do in the company of hornets.”

“ _Hornets!_ Ha! He attempts _flattery_ , now, of all times.”

“I do _not_ —”

“Because while you say these things,” Crowley continues. “I can sense there is a catch. You despise me, you despise my company, my taste in…life, I suppose. And _yet_ …”

 _Oh_ , thinks Aziraphale. _Oh._ And _yet_ —

“And yet…” Aziraphale downs his champagne. Crowley’s gaze is molten, it threatens to burn away his defenses, leave him stripped bare down to his bones, with the truth written across them.

_You intrigue me, you’ve captivated me, when you are near me I am close to trembling apart —_

Aziraphale finally says, “I should like to know you better, sir.”

Crowley smiles. Wicked, _wicked_ smile. “And I you, angel. And I _you_.”

* * *

It is, for all the flaws Crowley possesses, a wonderful party. Aziraphale is drunk by the time he gets home and passes out on his bed in the flat above the shop, waking in the morning with a terrible taste in his mouth and his evening clothes all over the place.

It’s a terrible feeling, and someone is knocking on the door.

“I’m coming, I’m _coming_ —” Aziraphale fumbles down the stairs and yanks open the front door to the shop. It’s _late_ he realizes. Far too late for him to have slept through his busy hours. He has so much work to do, so much, and here’s someone’s bloody servant, coming to his door to demand a finished product, or give him something else to do —

“Lord Crowley requests your presence this evening. For dinner.”

“Lord...oh—” There’s a note being held between them. Aziraphale snatches it, goes to the desk to fish out a few coins, and presses them into the man’s hand. He doesn’t move. “I’ve taken your letter.”

The man sighs. “His lordship will require a response.”

“Of for heaven’s—” Aziraphale tears open the letter.

_Angel —_

_Really didn’t have much time to chat. You got extremely drunk, I got far drunker, and we lost one another some time in the night. I’d like to finish what we started, if you can remember it. If not, then at least allow me the pleasure of your company tonight. I detest eating alone._

Aziraphale frowns. “Finish what we...what did we—”

Oh. Oh _dear._

The library. They’d wandered into the library, and Aziraphale had —

“ _Ahem._ ” The servant looks at him. Aziraphale sighs.

“Yes, _alright._ Tell him that I will be there at six o’clock. And here.” He shoves one more coin into the man’s hand. “Run fast, and tell no one.”

“Yes, sir.” He grins and takes off, leaving Aziraphale blinking in the mid-morning sun.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, and shuts the door.

* * *

_“Is this what you mean by know me better?”_

_“Perhaps. Do you have any complaints?”_

_“None at all, angel. It’s just you’ve had quite a lot to drink, and I was already drunk before you got here. Can’t promise I’ll remember come morning — oh. Oh, that’s very good.”_

_“You’ll remember me, my lord. I assure you.”_

* * *

Aziraphale splashes cold water on his face, utterly _mortified._ He’d done...he’d taken Crowley...he’d dragged him between the shelves and the two of them —

Had been interrupted, by a different pair of lovers. It’d sobered them, and quick, and while Crowley had given Aziraphale a reassuring smile as he’d readjusted himself and pulled him silently from the room, Aziraphale is now absolutely appalled at the behavior of his past self. When had he...when had he _ever_ —

Well. Not like that. _Certainly_ not like that.

It’s getting closer to six, so he gathers up a couple of things — another book of Wyatt poems, a bottle of wine — and starts walking toward the manor.

This is a strange journey he’s taking, he can feel things changing with every step. The shame from the morning has worn off and it’s replaced with a cautious, careful glow, growing deep in his chest. If he thinks, _really thinks_ , Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s warm lips on his own, a sturdy hand hooked ‘round his neck as he pushed his hips up, up for more.

As he whispers, “ _You can know me, for as long as you like, angel._ ”

* * *

“You know, I’m a little surprised you came.”

“Really?” Aziraphale folds his hands behind his back as they walk through the garden. “ _I’m_ surprised this places looks as good as it does.”

“Early start, many hands, light work.” Crowley shrugs. “You know how it goes.”

“Not really.” Aziraphale stops by one of the fountains, deciding to perch on the edge. “Why did you invite me here, Crowley?”

“I thought my letter was quite clear.”

“Yes, I understand that, but what I don’t understand—”

Crowley sits beside him. The air settles on his coat like rain in the morning, and his hand is dangerously close to Aziraphale’s.

“I came here to get away,” Crowley says. “Not just from my uncle, but from everything. From the entire _world._ I came here to bury myself in drink and hedonism, to make a fool of myself to your village just because I could. I had every intention of going from place to place, just to have my fill of whatever was there and then leave it behind. Because that’s what I do, angel. I take and I take and I am _never_ satisfied.

“And then I met you. I walked into your shop out of curiosity and there you were. I’ve no idea what it was. I think the sun—” He reaches out, ghosting his fingers over the curls falling across Aziraphale’s forehead. “—it struck your hair in a special way. You were illuminated. And I was spellbound.”

“...Crowley.”

“I know you can’t say the same for me. I know you detest me. Whatever you did last night, I’m under no delusion you desire me. That you want to continue it further. But if I didn’t tell you, if I didn’t say what I felt, what kind of a _fire_ you lit in me, then I’d be a fraud. Because I may be _crass_ and I may lie and drink too much and destroy everything I touch, but, angel... _angel._ ” His hand travels down to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. “For just...a moment, last night —

“You made me feel like... _so_ much more.”

Aziraphale leans in, captures Crowley’s lips in his. He grabs the front of his coat and drags him in, pulling them together as Crowley reaches up to hold Aziraphale’s face in his hands.

“I desire you,” he says. “I desire, I desire, I _desire you_ , Crowley. Like nothing and no one else—”

“Aziraphale—”

“You _are_ crass, and you have no taste whatsoever—”

“How romantic,” Crowley mutters.

“—but what you lack in all that you make up for with _sheer_ personality. No one has been so persistent, no one so...so…”

“So _what_ , angel?”

Aziraphale pulls back, just a bit. Crowley’s lips are flushed, his hair is a mess, and Aziraphale’s gone and torn off a button.

He’s _beautiful._

“So _good_ ,” he says, and kisses him again.

* * *

“Much nicer than the library,” Aziraphale says, letting Crowley shove him onto the bed.

“Save that for next time,” Crowley says, climbing after him and kissing him hungrily. “Oh, you’re going to ravage me, angel. Aren’t you? Say you will.”

“I will, I _will_ —”

“Excellent. Terribly excellent. Get out of those clothes. Here, I’ll help.” Crowley starts shedding things, tossing them across the room. Aziraphale tries to sit up, but keeps getting distracted. They can’t keep their mouths away from one another, and Crowley’s mouth is _incredible._ Warm, kiss-swollen lips that beg to be bitten and touched. Aziraphale wants to know what they’ll look like around his cock, but he has a feeling things are moving in different directions.

 _Next time_ , he thinks. _Next time, I’ll find out._

“You’re going somewhere, Aziraphale. Somewhere I can’t follow.”

Aziraphale finally gets his vest and shirt off, throwing it to the floor. “So sorry, my dear.” He kisses Crowley again, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. Aziraphale could kiss Crowley for weeks, he’s certain of it. He could have him and have him and have him and always want more. What a revelation, he thinks. What a thing to know about himself, about this other person, in just a day!

 _Oh_ , says a voice in his head. _But it’s been weeks, hasn’t it? You’ve been craving something for weeks and weeks and weeks_.

Ay, Aziraphale wants to answer. I have.

“Wassat?” Crowley looks up at him, eyes glazed over, pupils blown wide. “You say something?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Please take off the rest of your clothes.”

Crowley grins. “ _Wicked_ angel.”

Aziraphale sighs and moves so he can do the same. “You’ll stop calling me that eventually, won’t you?” It’s only a few paintings.”

“And the pin, don’t think I haven’t seen that. You wore it at the party. And the statue, _and_ the tea cup, _and_ the fountain pen, _and_ — mmph!” Aziraphale cuts him off with a kiss, sweeping his tongue into Crowley’s mouth with a moan that begets a _groan_ as Crowley mutters, “Not very angelic of you, was it?”

“I am _hardly_ an angel.”

“No,” Crowley says. “At least, not anyone else’s.”

The implication of _mine, mine, mine_ is heavy. Aziraphale hears the call, and answers it. Both of them naked, he urges Crowley onto his back and starts leaving a trail of kisses down his shoulder, his chest and his stomach. Crowley’s cock is the most obvious thing in the room right now, so Aziraphale reaches out and touches him, gets used to the heat of him in his hand.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs. Crowley’s hips jerks up. “Careful.”

“ _Aziraphale_ —”

“All the money and time and _class_ in the world, and here you are. Under me, an orphan and a bookbinder. Tell me, Crowley, is this what you’ve thought about, in the days since you met me?”

“Every last one,” Crowley says, through gritted teeth.

“Excellent.” Aziraphale sighs and moves down, kissing the tip of Crowley’s cock before putting the head of it in his mouth. He strokes the base with one hand, the other holding his hips down. His taste is _heady_ and good. Aziraphale moans and ruts against the bed beneath him, certain he’ll come and come undone before he has a chance to do what he’d like, what he’s quite sure Crowley wants.

“ _Aziraphale, Aziraphale_ —”

Aziraphale keeps going. He’s not really sure he’ll be able to stop, honestly, already addicted to the sounds Crowley makes, the way his hand flies to Aziraphale’s hair and pulls, just gentle enough to promise something more.

Crowley’s movements are becoming more desperate, so Aziraphale pulls off, crawling toward Crowley and kissing him.

“My dear—”

“Shut up,” Crowley snarls, kissing him back. “I want you, I want you inside me—”

“Brilliant,” Aziraphale says.

“There, over there on the dresser.” Aziraphale kisses the corner of Crowley’s mouth on more time before climbing off the bed and stumbling to where he’s pointing. He spots a bottle of oil and carries it back to the bed with him. “Clever boy.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale urges Crowley to turn onto his hands and knees, admiring him from behind. “Lovely,” he murmurs, running one hand over a bare cheek before giving it a firm smack.

“ _Holy_ —”

“Hardly,’ Aziraphale says. He sets the bottle on the bedside table. Crowley makes a noise. Aziraphale tuts. “Patience. Good things to those who wait, you know how it goes.”

“I don’t actually. You’re a bit un...unprecedented for me... _fuck._ ”

Aziraphale’s lowered his mouth, gently parting Crowley’s cheeks and pressing a kiss to the hot skin just above Crowley’s hole. He swipes his tongue there, then below, and then around. Slowly, slowly, then very fast. Crowley keens, crying out and grabbing the headboard to hold himself up.

“ _Aziraphale_ , what—”

“Just trust me.”

“Oh, I do. I do, I really do, but—”

Aziraphale presses his tongue to Crowley’s hole again and gets another low whine of pleasure. When he feels satisfied with what he’s done, he finally reaches for the bottle putting some in his hand to warm it before slicking his middle finger.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, Aziraphale, _yes_ , I’ve been ready, just — _oh._ Oh, oh, _oh._ ” Crowley groans and shifts, making a broken noise into the crook of his own arm. “Oh that’s it. _That’s_ it.”

“Will it be too much?”

“No, no. Not you, you couldn’t be. Just do it, don’t leave me waiting.”

Aziraphale nods, bending down to press a kiss to Crowley’s back. He works him open with one finger for a few minutes, letting him adjust before he finally pushes in another. Slick and warm and and willing, Crowley opens up to him, obviously wanting this, obviously ready. Aziraphale groans at the thought of Crowley doing this himself, imagining how beautiful he’d be, fucking himself open, readying himself for Aziraphale’s cock.

One more finger joins the others. Crowley’s voice has pitched upwards, barely comprehensible. Aziraphale is quite sure he’s going to lose himself in just a moment, if he doesn’t do something about this insatiable need swelling in his gut.

“Angel, angel please—”

“Of course. Just…” Aziraphale withdraws his fingers, gets the oil and slicks his cock. The anticipation is murder, the wait is just… “Are you ready?” he asks. “Are you absolutely ready?”

“Aziraphale, if you aren’t inside me in the next two seconds, I’m—”

Oh, Crowley _chokes._ He chokes on his own words as Aziraphale presses the blunt head of his cock against his hole and pushes, just a bit, and then a bit more. Slow and steady, slow and steady — Aziraphale is awash with need, he wants to thrust in and take, but he should be gentle, he should be careful.

For several long, agonizing moments, they grow used to the feel of one another. Crowley is hot, and tight around him. Aziraphale is sure he’s going to lose his own composure, he’s quite sure he’s going to come undone just at the sight, his cock inside Crowley, Crowley bent over and begging for him.

But he has more control than that. Aziraphale exhales, presses in, presses on. He goes and goes slow until finally he is completely inside Crowley, and Crowley _knows._

“Oh, that’s all of you. Oh fuck, _oh fuck_ —”

“May I?”

“Yes, please, Aziraphale, for the love of all that’s holy, just—”

Aziraphale pulls out, and thrusts back in.

It’s a damning sensation. He’s quite sure this is what people go to Hell for, getting lost in pleasure and the darkness of it. The need to possess, to take and take is so strong he can barely contain it. But sitting right there, right under that need, he feels something else. He feels something immense and uncontrollable. It’s like a creature all its own, something he could write books about and this is the first time, in all his years _around_ books and loving books and fixing books — the first time he’s ever thought about writing one of his own.

He picks up the pace. Crowley reacts in turn.

“More. Aziraphale, _more_.”

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

“You,” Crowley manages, looking over his shoulder. “I need you. I’ve _needed_ you, for years and years.”

“Just been waiting for me, have you?”

“Yes. _God_ , yes, Aziraphale. I have been. It’s what I’ve been doing, I—”

“Hush.” Aziraphale kisses between his shoulders, moving deeper and drawing a guttural moan from Crowley. “I’ve been waiting, too, you know. Waiting and waiting and waiting.” He thrusts in, hard, and holds himself there. “ _And though it be a small present, yet good, consider graciously, the thought, the mind, and the intent of him that loves you faithfully._ ”

“Bastard. _Cheeky_ bastard.” Crowley drops his head and _breathes._ “ _And since so much I do desire to be your own assuredly, for all my service and my hire, reward your servant liberally._ ” Crowley throws his head back and cries out.

“Are you going to come without me touching you, love?” Aziraphale strokes his arm. “What a sight.”

“Aziraphale, please—”

“Please what?”

“Just...I don’t know. I don’t know, I only know you’re the only one who can give it to me.”

Aziraphale hums. “That’s true,” he manages, panting against the back of Crowley’s neck as he fucks him, properly fucks him now. “Will you come for me? Will you let me feel it? I don’t need to touch you, I know that.”

“No, you don’t. Oh, all the—” Crowley comes with a shout, his body seizing with it. He clenches around Aziraphale, who doesn’t need much more to finally chase his own release, spilling into Crowley, filling him and digging his teeth into his bare shoulder. Crowley moans again, clinging to the headboard with a white-knuckle grip. Aziraphale eases out of him, both of them sighing with the effort as they collapse into bed.

Crowley speaks first.

“I’m a mess.”

“Not what I’d call you.”

“No, angel, literally. I’m a _mess._ Look what you’ve done to me.” He falls to his back, showing off his chest messy with come.

Aziraphale sighs, bends down, and starts to lick him clean.

“Now, hold on, I didn’t say—”

“Shut up.”

Crowley raises a brow. “...Right then. Leave you to it.”

* * *

Daylight brings new perspectives. Aziraphale lies in bed and considers. Considers what he is, what Crowley is. How very different their lives have been, and how very different they will eventually be. He gets out of bed, and disappears before sunrise.

Well, he tries to.

“Where’re you running off to?” Crowley asks.

“I should go home. I need to change and I have so much work to do, you’ve no idea.”

“Sure I do, I hired you to do some of it.” Crowley rolls over and winces. “Be feeling you for a while.” He looks at Aziraphale with a baldfaced fondness that _shatters_ him. “Can’t you stay for breakfast?”

“I shouldn’t.” Aziraphale finishes dressing and goes to Crowley, leaning in to kiss is forehead. Crowley, other things on the brain this morning, pulls him down for something open mouthed and filthy instead. “ _Crowley._ ”

“You should stay, and we should spend some time in the library.”

“We shouldn’t—”

“I want to suck your cock. Was trying to be coy about it, but I wanted to suck you off in the library. Thought you’d think that was...I dunno. Figured it’d _be your thing._ ”

Oh, he has _no_ idea. “Crowley, I think that’s wonderful. I really do. But I need to go.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley sits up. His tone’s changed, and Aziraphale isn’t sure he likes it. “Last night. Last night was brilliant, every single part of it. You told me things, important things.”

“I know I did. But my life can’t stop moving just because...just because…”

Crowley frowns. “Just. Because. _What?_ ”

Aziraphale pitches forward and kisses him again. “Just because I adore you,” he says breathlessly. “I’m sorry, Crowley. But I’m not like you, I can’t pack up and go wherever I choose, once I’ve gotten what I wanted.”

Crowley gets out of bed, searching for something to wear. “Hold on. Just...just _hold on._ You think last night was about...about crossing something off a list?”

“You said you get your fill of a place and you go. Why would you expect me to think you want anything more to do with me after that?”

“I don’t know, because of all the other _stupid_ things I said. I recited _sonnetts_ with you. I gave you _everything_ last night. If there’s anyone who’s taking what they want and leaving the rest of it all behind, it’s you, angel.”

“Stop calling me that. I need to go.”

“Aziraphale, wait. _Wait._ ”

“I’m sorry,” he says. Crowley is still struggling to get dressed, but Aziraphale is fleeing. “I just don’t have that luxury.”

* * *

“This is excellent work, Aziraphale. Really.” Reverend Taylor lifts up one of the Sunday school bibles, beaming. “I’ve had my doubts about you before, but you really came through.”

 _Fascinating._ Aziraphale tries to smile. “Yes, well. I’m just glad you can...get things back to normal.”

“Of course, of course.” The reverend starts picking up the books and putting them into a crate. “If we have anymore trouble with our books, we’ll come to you.”

“Well, thank you, I do appreciate it—”

“Your brother, you know. He told us to be careful, but I says, I said to him, we needed these fixed right up. Said we should just buy new ones, but I told him, yeah? I told him they were special, and _he_ says—”

“Yes, _thank you_ , Reverend. Have a wonderful day now.” Aziraphale ushers the man outside before he leans heavily on the door frame. “For the love of God…”

“Oh, come on now, angel. Get a bit more creative than that.”

Aziraphale straightens, and finds Crowley leaning against the wall outside the shop. “Crowley.”

“That’s my name.” He brushes past Aziraphale into the shop. “Came by to see if my uncle’s book was ready. It’s been a couple weeks.” He rings the bell. The implication is heavy.

Two weeks, he doesn’t say, since I saw you last. Two weeks, since Aziraphale fled Crowley’s room, terrified of what he felt.

Two weeks since they’d spoken, and now all Aziraphale wants to do is say he’s sorry. But he can’t. He’s got a knot called _pride_ in his throat. No sense in being humble about it now.

“I think so. Let me just check.”

“Excellent! Glad to know it wasn’t a job commissioned in vain.”

Aziraphale sighs. “I was always going to finish it, Crowley. I’m a man of my word.”

“...Are you? That’s funny. Wasn’t sure if that was true or not.” Crowley follows him to his workshop, draggings his hand along the spines of the books on different shelves around them.

“...Crowley, I never said I didn’t _mean_ those things, but you have to understand—”

“You didn’t have to say. What you did was words enough.”

“That’s not—”

“Look, I get it. You’re all hung up on class and breeding and how you’re parentless and whatever. I don’t care about those things. I _care_ about the way you made me feel, about the future I saw. The one where I’m not lonely and I don’t burn alive everything I touch.” Crowley leans on his workbench, and Aziraphale is, for a moment, afraid. Afraid of...everything.

“..You have no tact.”

“Nothing new about that.”

“You don’t actually think that you could...that we could run away together. That you’d be enough to get me to leave all this behind?”

Crowley gestures wildly, _angrily_. “All of _what_ , Aziraphale? Books? We can bring the books with us! The business? You can do that anywhere. You can do that in London, for God’s sake, where there’s more than ten people and preacher to bring you business. Angel, look at me. _Look_ at me.”

Aziraphale does as he’s asked.

“I told you. I told you what you did to me, and I meant all of it. Aziraphale please—” Crowley goes to him, gathers up his hands and holds them to his lips. He closes his eyes and breathes. The world underneath them moves.

“Crowley...Crowley I’m nothing. I’m...I’m an orphan and a bookbinder. I have barely a handful of coins to fill one hand these days. I’m lonely and insufferable, and I always have to be right—” Crowley laughs, and Aziraphale can’t help it. He laughs with him. “I don’t know what you deserve, but I know it has to be more than me. I know it must be.”

“You don’t know that,” Crowley says. “All you know is what you’ve been told. And so I’m telling you something new. You are valuable. You have worth. You are worth something _to me._ How can you believe those terrible things about yourself, but when you look at me, I know you’re thinking the same thing? No one has ever looked at me and seen something worth saving. But I know the look, I know what it should feel like.”

“Crowley, I love you. Of course I look at you and see someone worth saving.”

Crowley laughs again. “Then let’s stop this. Let’s...stop being idiots apart, and let’s be idiots in love and idiots who spend their lives together.”

“ _Crowley._ ”

“I can’t make you love yourself the way I love you. I can’t force that on you. You weren’t standing where I was standing, all those weeks ago, when I came in here, and I saw the sunshine _lighting_ you up. And I want to see that every day, for the rest of my life. Will you let me?”

Aziraphale looks at him. There is so much there, so much resting on those words, riding on his response. The book is finished. He could say no, hand it over, and Crowley would leave. He’d never have to see him again.

The difference between the things a man _has_ to do, and the things a man _wants_ to do are gentle. They ride the edges of importance like water along a shoreline. Aziraphale threads this line through the needle quite carefully. To tip over to one side or the other is a dangerous ordeal. He need to decide, not just on this, but on everything else.

Is he the kind of man who throws himself headfirst into love, or does he let it subside, a memory to be picked up, a shell in his collection for later?

He loves Crowley. He adores Crowley. He constantly wishes for and desires him.

What else, besides books and angel-wing tea cups and tacky little paintings _is there_ in this world?

Nothing, is the answer. At least, not here.

“ _And wilt thou leave me thus?_ ” Crowley whispers. “ _Say nay, say nay, for shame._ ”

“Nay,” Aziraphale says. “I will not.”

* * *

“You’re beautiful,” Crowley says. “Beautiful for me like this.”

“Stop it, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

Crowley leans back, laughing before he takes one of Aziraphale’s legs and presses a kiss to his bended knee. “I only wanted you to know,” he says, before he starts to press his cock into him.

Aziraphale tips his head back and moans. Crowley’s mouth immediately finds the column of his throat, kissing him again and again and again, biting the skin and whispering against his skin: “You taste so lovely.”

“ _Crowley._ ”

“I never expected you. Not even for a moment. And now here you are. Where should we go, after this? We could go anywhere.”

“ _Paris._ Take me to Paris.”

Crowley laughs. “You pathetic little romantic. Of course I’ll take you to Paris, thought that’d be a bloody given.” With a sigh he finally pushes all the way in, and Aziraphale cries out. “Oh, that’s a sound. What a _sound._ ”

“Crowley!”

“Yes, love, I’m here. Is this how you want me? You want me buried in you, you want me to take you slow?”

“You know what I want.”

“Actually, I don’t. First time, like this.” Crowley grins, kisses his nose. “So,” he says, thrusting lazing into Aziraphale, like it doesn’t even matter. “Paris first. Then...well, we could go to New York. Or Switzerland, I think you’d like Switzerland. Haven’t been myself, but I’ve heard great things.”

“Wherever, I don’t care, just—” Aziraphale ancient bed groans beneath them. It’s the middle of the afternoon, the shop is locked up, and Aziraphale is quite certain they’re going to be found out — he’s left the window open on accident, it’s so _hot_ up here in the summer, all the time. “Crowley, just move—”

“Whatever you need angel.” Crowley thrusts in earnest, the bed screeching under them. “How do you _sleep_ on this thing—”

“I don’t...I don’t _often_ —”

“Nevermind, don’t want to hear about any of the others.”

Aziraphale manages a laugh, which quickly melts into a moan. “Oh, that’s very good.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, _Crowley_ yes—” The pace picks up. Crowley stops seeking praise, but Aziraphale keeps giving it to him. He needs him to know he’s sorry, needs to him to know how deeply loved and cherished he is. As Crowley thrusts in completely Aziraphale hauls him in, kisses him deeply, and that’s how it ends. Crowley comes, eyes wide and mouth falling open while Aziraphale wraps a hand around his cock and finds his release, just a moment later.

They are breathing hard and a right mess, but —

“Oh, that was brilliant. That was absolutely brilliant.” Crowley collapses with a sigh. Aziraphale kisses his cheek and gets up to find something to clean them up with. “Now, hold on—”

“Crowley, just let me—”

“Angel.” Crowley pulls him back to the bed. “You’re not going to walk around like that.” He kisses his sternum, tongue darting out to clean lick it clean. “You’ll make a mess,” he murmurs, before urging Aziraphale back and slipping between his legs. “Just stay very still. I won’t take very long.”

Crowley ducks his head. A moment later, Aziraphale feels a clever, _clever_ tongue at his hole. “ _Crowley_. Crowley, what—” He swears, writhes under Crowley’s steady hands until the man rises up, goes to Aziraphale, and slips his own come between his lips.

Aziraphale is dazed, rattled, and _alive._

He swallows.

Crowley looks incredibly smug as he says:

“So. Paris?”

Aziraphale falls, _impossibly_ , more in love. 

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ weatheredlaw


End file.
